
Durham Statue
by David Palethorpe
There is a statue
in the square,
standing all alone,
his soul laid bare.
Sad and forlorn,
I long to know his story.
What of his comrades—
where are they now?
Did they fall
in some forgotten field,
or return as heroes
to a land of hope,
a land fit for them?
Or do they weep,
from where they are,
for what might have been—
the freedoms they dreamed,
freedoms with a price:
the price of sacrifice,
the statue’s silent gift.
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